poetry | Real Spooks

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It’s not the creaking of the floor

That signals they are here

Those faint elusive fingertaps

That prey upon our fear.

It’s not the crawling palp of flesh

That tingles up the spine

And makes us walk into a wall

Or cover heads and whine.

It’s more the sudden heart in throat

That harkens our aware

And causes us to stop dead still

To contemplate and stare

And trembling legs like rubber bands

That fail us when we walk

And frantic waving baby arms

That fly out when we talk

That tell us when the spooks are near

And spur us on to look

At things we might perhaps to fear

That live within a book.

But life is not a cavalcade

Of vignettes marching by,

And all that we can hope to do

Is sit, and wonder why.

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(A Poem Often Recited by Ruth Bond Randolph)

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There’s things out in the forest
That’s worser an’ ‘n owl,
‘At gets on naughty boys ‘n girls
‘At allers wears a scowl.
There’s things out in the forest ‘
At’s worser ‘n a lion,
‘At gets on wicked boys ‘n girls
‘At’s quarrelin’ an’ a-cryin’.
There’s things out in the forest, mind,
An’ if you don’t take care,
The woodticks—-the woodticks—-
Will be crawlin’ thro’ yer hair.

An’ they say as boys is naughty,
An’ their hearts is full o’ sin,
They’ll crawl out in the night time
An’ get underneath yer skin,
An’ the doctor’ll have to take a knife
An’ cut ’em off jes’ so,
An’ if a bit of ’em is left
Another one’ll grow.
An’ mebbe you won’t feel ’em, too,
Er even know they’re there,
But by and by they’ll multiply
And crawl up in yer hair.

The devil’s darnin’ needle too,
‘Ill come and sew yer ear.
An’ make a nest inside like that,
An’ then you’ll never hear;
An’ the jigger bugs gets on you,
An the thousand-legged worm
‘Ill make you writhe, an’ twist, and’ groan,
An’ cry, an’ yell, an’ squirm;
But the worst things ‘at’ll git you
If you lie, or steal, or swear,
Is the woodticks—-the woodticks—-
A-crawlin’ thro’ yer hair.

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Benjamin Franklin King, Jr. (1857–1894) was an American humorist and poet whose work published under the names Ben King or the pseudonym Bow Hackley. He achieved notability in his lifetime and afterwards. King was born in St. Joseph, Michigan, March 1857, and died while on a speaking tour at Bowling Green, Kentucky in April 1894. (Wikipedia)

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